This is a cumulative rusting. A slow wearing out after a long pushing through.
There’s a hole in the floorboard. A sarcoma of rust on the rear quarter-panel. An orangey, brown rash— a constellation of decay– blooming on the hood.
She ran and ran for decades— little maintenance. No 3,000 mile oil changes, no carburetor adjustment. A full tank of gas now and then when things were flush, but mostly, she ran on fumes.
No one should’ve been surprised when she blew a gasket— threw a rod coming down the back stretch– but everyone was. No one more so than she. She should’ve been able to take that curve. Done it a million times in the past— eyes shut and throwing it into overdrive. Her foot never touching the brake. Just like he taught her.
Now there’s smoke pouring out from the radiator. The teeth on the flywheel worn to nubs from power shifting with her foot on the gas. Not like she hadn’t been warned— she had.
But he taught her to drive. Taught her how to skip 3rd gear. ‘Get your speed up to 40 while you’re in 2nd,’ he said, ‘then shift right into 4th. It’s more efficeint and less wear on your clutch.’ Probably how she got through 5 decades before the wheels came off.
He taught her how to hold the car steady on an incline, without using the brake. Brought her to a stop sign on a hill, and told her to wait until someone came up behind her. ‘Let the clutch out halfway while also giving it some gas. The tension will keep you from rolling back.’
She stalled the first 20 times. The cars behind her threw her the finger, honked their horns and spit gravel as they tore around her. She was taking up too much space. Not enough tension. She tried harder.
Like it was a sin to use the brake. A sacrelige to learn how to operate yourself in a quiet empty lot or backroad. Best to be thrown into the fire— like he taught her to swim. He pushed her off the dock.
~
I’ve always loved an old pickup in a hay field. The farmer-green paint patina-ed to reds and browns. Windshield fractured, but whole. Sparrows roosting in the glove box. That old work horse, finally allowed to rest.
Yeah, the tension keeps you from rolling backward. Until it doesn’t anymore. No one is more surprised than you. It’s a cumulative coming undone. A slow wearing through.
And then, there you are— downshifting on the hairpins with a foot hovering over the brake. No longer trusting your car to the man who wears the star.
(Housekeeping: It would mean a lot if you’d consider sharing my work on your Substack feed, or other social media. The walls are pretty sheer out here. Any foothold is deeply appreciated.)
**inspo— Last Chance Texaco / Rickie Lee Jones
this is beautiful kate! <3
Gorgeous work